


Dark Tower pornlet

by xiilnek



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Book: The Drawing of the Three, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiilnek/pseuds/xiilnek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I jerk off left-handed</i>, he thought, <i>at least that's something.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Tower pornlet

**Author's Note:**

> Set near the end of Drawing of the Three, after Roland warns Susannah away from the devil-weed but before he shoots the deer.

The infection isn't gone. Not yet, but almost. Roland still needs rest more often than he'd prefer, but he can walk almost double the distance without tiring that he could a few days ago. He might even be something close to healthy. Healthy enough to start feeling the draw to something he hasn't been able, for one reason or another, to even think of for some weeks. He turns his head away from the stars, looking over at the still forms of Eddie and Susannah. Eddie twitches, squirms a little, but for him that's nothing out of the ordinary. They're both asleep, he judges, and deeply enough. He looks up again, the vast black deep of the sky and the stars wheeling away from him, and his fingers start twitching a path down to the button of his jeans. It's not an awkward motion, and that itself is new. No retraining here, no constant attention on his hands as if they're errant children waiting for the slightest distraction to fall back into old habits. This is a task his fingers know well, and it's simple to set them to it.

Even before the button is halfway undone Roland can feel himself harden. This will be quick, he thinks. How many weeks has it been? Two? Three? The mere notion of what he's about to do is enough to start things along, as if his body is all at once trying to make up for lost time. His fingers draw the zipper down, and at the cessation of pressure he twitches, bites his lip over a gasp. He huffs a harsh breath through his nose, reigning himself in. This is nothing he hasn't done countless times before. It's nothing like the urgent need he'd felt in youth; it's an urge to sate, when he has the time. 

Still, maybe there is time to savor. A little. Roland lifts his hips, shimmying a ways out of the constricting material there. Goosepimples begin to rise over his hipbones, but he knows that chill air against his skin will be a relief soon, if all goes well. The bedroll's soft against his ass when he settles back against the ground and for a moment the sensation reminds him of sheets pulled over a bed, hands roaming over skin. That particular occasion hadn't been one for names, or even really for words, but it had been a good bed and good company and the corners of his lips drift up a little as he remembers it. The palm of Roland's right hand skims over his torso, shadowing another remembered hand across the ribs it finds there. The landscape's different than it was then, ribs a little too prominent, stomach too sunken in after extended illness, but his skin remembers. As one hand ghosts down, slipping over the smooth hollows of Roland's hips and down his pelvis, the other slides up, moving across his chest. The two fingers of his right hand curl, fingernails catching against a nipple in the same moment the fingers of his left curl around his penis, and for the second time in less than five minutes the gunslinger barely represses a gasp. He doesn't stop to reign himself back in this time, though. His left hand moves up, drifts up, only barely touching the skin as his right scratches two trails of pink through the sparse, graying hair over his chest. The movements of a long-ago companion in a long ago bed, still remembered.

He's barely started but already he needs to finish. Now, before you judge, know that the gunslinger can wait for anything. He can wait minutes, hours, days, years if need be. Training and decades have taught him to be patient in all things - almost all things, save this. When there's a partner to please, another weary traveler trying to lose themselves with his body for a time, Roland finds some of this patience returned. But for now it's just him, him and the beach and the stars, the cool air and Eddie's half-asleep, senseless murmurs muffled against Susannah's skin. He wants more, he wants more _now_ and there's no reason to tease or hold anything back, so he doesn't. Roland's left hand squeezes and his teeth clench, his jaw clenches, he throws his head back and watches the darkness on the inside of his eyelids. It's not enough.

He huffs and his left hand starts to move again, finding a steady up-down-up-down pattern, and again the ease of this motion almost distracts him from the motion itself. This is one thing, at least, he won't have to learn all over again. The rhythm is familiar, it's familiar because it works, but the whole thing is _still not enough_.  He needs something more, something to remind his body how to do this.

An imagined partner, maybe - different from the memory of the last, as nice as that had been. Rougher. Skin against his skin, nipples moving against his chest, hip bones bumping uncomfortably against one another. His eyes stay closed, all the easier to imagine a knee nudging his aside, a hand slipping between them to fondle his balls, a thumbnail trailing against the inside of his foreskin. Roland does gasp this time, quietly. His head goes back, his hips rise a little from the ground. His jeans have slid down even further, halfway to his knees, but the air no longer feels chill against his exposed skin. The air's practically _steaming_. His thigh muscles flex as his hips pump, looking for friction against a body that isn't there.

He realizes the one set of imaginary hands has turned to two; long fingers wrap around either side of his chest, neat nails pressing gently into the skin there, while slender, nimble fingers with short jagged nails squeeze a double handful of his ass. The owner of the first pair of hands laughs her low, rich laughter, hair brushing Roland's cheeks as she leans forward to kiss his brow. She leans back again, sitting on his hips and gazing at him with an indulgent smile. Letting him process the realization. Of course it's these two. Of course it is, and he doesn't care to think on it very deeply at the moment because Eddie's getting impatient (of course he is). Eddie's cheek brushes Susannah's breast as he leans forward, and for a moment they just gaze at Roland together. Then Eddie stretches out his legs, shifts downward, and everything's a blur of bodies and someone laughs again and Roland opens his eyes to see hazel, hazel staring wide right into him and his breaths are short, panting things and for a moment all he thinks is, _ah_ , and there are colors behind his eyelids now and a quiet moan stuttering helplessly from his cracked lips and there are the stars, wheeling above him.

The sweat is cool, drying against his skin. The air cools with it and a shudder jerks across Roland's shoulders. Maybe he's overexerted himself, the chill of fever stealing around him like a cloak while it still can, but for the moment it doesn't matter. His breaths are slowing, his heart is slowing, and he looks away from the stars and into wide, hazel eyes, smiles a slow, peaceful smile, and he hears Eddie's breath hitch in his chest.


End file.
